One thing I never admitted out loud is that I'm scared that I might hold you dearer in my heart than you hold me--that maybe I labeled us as best friends without evening thinking about the possibility that you might not be there waiting to meet me in the middle. We never really talked about what this was--what we are. I mean, it's not like we're dating or anything. There's no need to "establish the relationship" or any other variation of that bullshit. But isn't there? I don't doubt that I mean a lot to you: I know you love me and care about me as any good friend would. But there is a difference between being really good friends and being best friends. Am I being too greedy? It's just that best friends get to call each other their number one. And I think I desperately want to be someone's number one--to be able to give so much love and feel what it's like to get it back.

Our belted-out karaoke shouts, our too-old-to-be-watching-Barbie-movies marathons, our gummy bear-filled car rides (I'm glad I could give my yellow and orange ones to you), our ramen soup secrets, our late-night hotel bed dividing line arguments--it's what makes you the most precious person in my life. But maybe that meant more to you when we were kids--when you were the lonely one and not me. But now that we've gone off to college and you've made a place for yourself among people that are more like you than I could ever be, I wonder if they mean more to you than I do.

I think the thing I'm most afraid to admit to you is that I'm not happy with where I am. And at night when I'm feeling especially alone and the street lamp outside my room casts a soft glow around the photos of us hanging up on the faded wall, I think about our friendship and how I know we will be in each other's lives forever. The thought of that alone makes me realize I am luckier than most for having someone like that out there--even if separated by distance. It's enough to make me feel so grateful to the point where I can feel my heart physically swell up inside my chest, enough to make me want to listen to a song about how wonderful life is and have a good cry. But then I think that maybe I've turned into someone who is only good enough to be remembered--that somehow I let you store me away in a box with the rest of your childhood memories. Perhaps you'll be excited to see me a couple times a year throughout your life, but when it comes time to get back to your reality, I'll be stored away in the attic until you feel like taking me back out again. And the hope I have for the future would only be the "good old days" in your life.

The thought of telling you all of this crosses my mind now and then. I think to myself, "tonight I will tell her everything." But I never do. Instead, as I lie in my sleeping bag next to yours on the hardwood floor, I get caught up in the dark, calm stillness of the house. Everyone has fallen asleep except for us. The world stops and knowing it won't start again until the morning, we are free to enjoy it as we please. I think about bringing it up again. I think that maybe it would be good to get it off my chest. Maybe it would make us even closer, and maybe your answer would give me peace of mind. But I still don't. I don't want to take this moment away from us. But more than that, I'm too afraid of the truth. So I don't say anything. I let us lay there, staring up at the ceiling, talking without breaking our gaze from the faint glow of the lights above us, laughing with our eyes until they become too tired to stay open. We fall asleep. Then morning comes, and in between bittersweet bites of cinnamon raisin bagels and pulp-free orange juice, I prepare myself to say goodbye to you once more.